A Rant About the Media
Meanwhile, is anyone else finding a bit of pleasure in watching journalists complain about how bloggers who are nailing them lack credentials and qualifications in the wake of the discovery of the White House's succession of paid hatchetmen and porn purveyors? This is a profession whose practitioners write books about anything they please irrespective of whether it is at all related to their day job, people who write columns about whatever tickles their fancy, and then love to mock academics if we ask about their credentials. Keep this in mind the next time Halberstam or McCullough are stumping their books. Qualifications either matter or they don't, folks. I do not recall a backlash against Mitch Albom, a sportswriter in Detroit, when he wrote that vat of treacle Tuesdays With Morrie. I am more than willing to judge the quality of the work irrespective of credentials. I've been known to stray into territory not exactly within the ambit of my pretty broad training. But these blowhards are amusing. They want it both ways.
I am also a bit tired of journalists and their potted exposes of the historical profession. If you've read a daily newspaper of late, you've seen at least one story covering the tired terrain of the sins (alleged and real) of Goodwin, Ambrose, Bellesiles and Ellis as if it was fresh news. Journalists, who commonly resort to"high level officials" and other unnamed sources, and whose profession hit its peak of glamor in the light of Woodward and Bernstein's shoddy work during the Nixon years (why do so few people know this?), probably ought not to be worrying about footnotes in our profession. I agree that historians need to do a better job policing ourselves and that we are fair game for anyone. I am just not certain that the loudest criticism ought to come from some hack who does not ever have to footnote or cite accurately, who thinks The Five People You Meet in Heaven is a career aspiration, who has been trained that one sentence does a paragraph make, whose editor might have rewritten half of their last article on the local city council meeting, and whose own profession is reaching new levels of laughability.
Now I'm going to settle down for a giggle with David Halberstam's The Children, which asserts that the first arrest on the Freedom Rides came in Charlottesville (The Freedom Riders never went through Charlottesville; the first arrest was in Charlotte -- a slight difference) and tells a colorful tale about Diane Nash traveling over night to meet Martin Luther King, Jr. and have a chicken dinner. Rollicking stuff. Except that event never happened either. Nash has to this day never been to the King house. Sorry -- some jackass was braying about credentials?